Page 115 of Misfortune and Mr. Right

“I told Lynette I’d grab Cassidy after school.”

“Fine. We’ll grab her. Or I’ll call Lynette and tell her I’ll be getting her. Trust me, when she hears what Logan pulled, she won’t want you on the streets either.”

“She can’t know.”

“What? Why not?”

“She’ll hate him. She’s already been warning me not to fall for him.”

“Are you actually protecting him right now?”

“Maybe. I don’t know. I’m just not ready to tell my sister, okay?”

“Fine. We won’t tell Lynette yet. Whatever you need. This is your day. You call the shots. From the passenger seat, mind you.”

I grab Cassidy’s booster seat from the backseat and climb into Megan’s car as she clicks off her cell, ending our call.

“Oh, Olivia.” She reaches across and pushes my hair back from my face. “I’m so sorry.”

She leans in and pulls me into a hug, and I collapse into her.

“I don’t have words, so I’m just going to do whatever you need. What sounds good? A bath? A nap? Food? Bombing his apartment?”

“I don’t want to bomb his apartment. I’m just … spent. Maybe a nap.”

Megan takes me back to The Serendipity. I take the stairs instead of the elevator so I can avoid even looking at Logan’s apartment. Gran’s apartment. The one he ripped out from under me. Yes. He didn’t know about that particular undermining, but it’s so on brand for him.

We walk up to my doorway and there’s a cookie sitting right on my doormat.

“What is this?” Megan bends down and picks it up.

“I have no idea. They pop up everywhere around here.”

I don’t mention the ones I’ve randomly found in my apartment. There’s really no way to explain their appearance. I don’t have the energy to sort through the whys and wherefores of mystery cookies right now.

“Want to read it?” she asks.

“Not especially.”

“Mind if I do?”

“Suit yourself.”

I take my key out and open the door—the door that no longer squeaks because Steve fixed it the same day I told Logan about the electrical and plumbing issues. Maybe Logan even had a hand in getting things fixed and improved in my apartment.

Mr. Conundrum. That’s what I’m calling him from now on.

Megan opens the crinkly cellophane wrapper, cracks the cookie in half, and pulls out the paper. Then she reads, “Don’t let the past predict your future. Things aren’t always as they appear.”

“May I?” I ask her.

She hands me the two halves of the cookie and the slip of paper.

I place them on my wood floor and stomp on them.

Then I walk into the kitchen, grab a broom, and sweep the mess and the infuriating fortune into the dustpan.

Megan says, “I’m just going to draw you a bath. Busy yourself while I get that going … Maybe put water on for chamomile tea … or lavender. Whatever soothes the ache.”

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